221C Baker Street
by GeekaZoid420
Summary: He was arrogant, self righteous, utterly impossible - and... brilliant. And that brilliance caused me to stay. Sherlock/OC. Reviews are much loved!
1. Chapter 1

_OK, guys this is my first ever Sherlock fic... so please be gentle with me :3 Just to say, Sherlock is VERY hard to write - I suppose only a genius like ACD could do it! God bless him! _

_Steven, Mark - thank you._

_I don't own it :/ but please review if you can!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter One:**

**"A Room With No View"**

Did I leave it on? I _swear_ I turned it off!

Let's see, went to the kitchen – turned on the iron, ironed, put my shirt on –I was interrupted by a fragile old lady opening the door.

"Hello dear, are you one of Johns and Sherlock's friends?"

Who?

"Oh, hello, no –I'm here about the room?"

The elderly woman in front of me looked vaguely dazed at my question, not surprising, she was probably as forgetful as a spoon.

"Urm, 221C? We spoke on the phone?"

Finally it dawned on her and she smiled good-naturedly and ushered me in.

"Yes! Of course dear, this way!"

She gestured down a rather darkened hallway whilst still continuing her rambling –

"I'm sorry about the confusion, it's just I haven't been able to get anyone interested in this room," She leaned in and whispered "It'll probably be the rats."

Rats? Yes, I wonder why no one has jumped at the chance to live here.

"You look like a tough young thing though, sure a few rats won't scare you!" She chuckled grimly, and I could tell this was her last chance to try to sell the place.

"No- of course not, I'll take a look if you don't mind?"

Her eyes widened as she pulled a set of jumbled keys out of her dress, "Lovely! I'll leave you to it shall I?"

"Thank you Mrs …?"

"Hudson, dear" She smiled again, "And you?"

"Oh, I'm Angela, Angela Porter."

"Well, Angela, I hope I'll to be seeing you more often!" She trotted off back into what I can only assume was her flat, leaving me with a key and an unopened door.

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><p>As I climbed the stairs down to 221C I noticed that there was barely any light. When I finally got to the bottom, and I was greeted by a musky, old smell. It wasn't unpleasant, but I'd still do some thorough cleaning. The only sight to be seen was the dull undertone of London from the tiny bedroom window. The room was small, and led back into the living room that connected to the fairly sized kitchen.<p>

I'd rather not go into detail about the bathroom.

The only source of light I could now see was coming from the broken blind that was draped over the window – the worn wallpaper was falling off, and the stained carpet was tattered.

In fact, the only redeeming factor about 221C Baker Street was the fireplace in the middle of the room. I stuck my head in it and looked up – a cast array of dust flew around me and invaded my lungs-it hadn't been cleaned in years.

No, this is defiantly not the place for me. I know I can't afford to pick and choose, but I'm not living in a hovel, no matter how cheap it is.

When I finally ventured back up the stairs again, a loud noise erupted from upstairs.

"SHERLOCK!" A man's voice called.

I recognized the unusual name from Mrs Hudson. They must live here.

"Oh, what John? I'm Busy!" Another voice answered.

"What – are –_ my_ – pants, doing in the microwave?" 'John' replied.

I sniggered under my breath. What in the world…?

"It's an experiment." The other voice, this 'Sherlock' stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I was quite contented listening to the two men fighting upstairs in 221B when Mrs Hudson appeared from nowhere.

"So dear! What do you think?" She looked hopeful, too hopeful. I almost felt bad for what I was about to –

"Mrs Hudson!" a commandingly deep voice shouted.

We both turned to look at a figure at the top of the stairs.

"John and I are going out, most likely be back late – we'll need some food."

I could only see the outline of him, he was tall –that was obvious- and I could see the outline of curls on his head. He was in the process of putting on his coat when he started to descend.

To say that he was handsome would be an understatement. His thick black curls left unruly of his head, his high cheekbones partnered with his strong jaw made his face unnerving. He was thin but lean – dressed in an clearly expensive suit partnered a silk purple shirt – two buttons undone at the top. The thing that stuck out the most about his was his eyes, crystal blue and ice cold, which I now realised were scrutinizing me.

I have to say, I felt a little exposed and so broke our gaze.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson scolded. He didn't seem to move an inch.

"Can't you see that we have a visitor?" She gestured to me and I shrunk under his gaze yet again.

He studied me for a moment before saying, "Yes, you did."

What?

"Um –e-excuse me?" I stuttered, mentally scolding myself for being such a fool.

"Your iron, you left it on this morning when you thought you were late for this precise meeting with Mrs Hudson." He noted, again as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I stood there, baffled.

"H-how?"

But his attention was already away from me, and he was now in the process of calling up the stairs.

"John! Hurry!"

"How fast do you expect me to-"

'John', probably in his late thirties, early forties stomped down the stairs, but stopped when he saw me.

His hair was greying and he was wearing a jumper similar to one I've seen my grandfather wear, but he seemed to have a friendly disposition – rather unlike the stoic man next to him.

"Oh, hello." He smiled.

I had no problem answering this man. "Hello there." I replied with ease.

"Sorry, I didn't catch your name." He smiled again, at the same time from the corner of my eye I saw Sherlock roll his eyes dramatically.

"Look, we've no time for this John! Not when a deliciously juicy crime has been committed!"

It was now John turn to roll his eyes. "I'm sure Lestrade can cope without us for five minutes!"

"John, once again you _astound _me."

John ignored his sarcasm and turned to me. "So, how do you like London so far?"

Honestly, I wasn't too impressed. "It's … nice. Streets are a bit grotty though."

John laughed a little too enthusiastically at this before saying "Ah, you'll soon get used to it, I've heard-"

"Really, John? This is incredibly dull. Is this actually how you people talk to each other? What next, the weather?"

"Sherlock, just go and get a taxi – I'll be there in a minute." I could practically hear John's teeth grating together.

With no word of protest he turned and flew out of the door.

"Don't mind him, he's just…"

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson answered.

John nodded.

"Is he always like that?" I asked.

"He's Sherlock Holmes, so, yes, always." John smiled, and then held out his hand. "Dr John Watson."

Doctor? Impressive.

"Angela Porter." I shook his hand with a grin.

"Angela's going to be moving into 221C John!" Mrs Hudson announced happily.

"Oh, really? Well that's- that's something isn't it."

I could tell I hadn't been the only one to venture down to the depths of 221C.

"Yes, it's –"

"JOHN!" Sherlock Holmes bellowed from outside.

"Oh – god." John sighed "I better go, his majesty awaits."

Mrs Hudson nodded and once again trod back to her little flat. John turned his concentration back to me.

"Nice meeting you. Hopefully, this won't be the last time." he grinned, and dashed out the front door.

"Oh, you…" But the door had already closed behind him. "…too."

I was left alone of the hall of 221B Baker Street.

Just before I proceeded to leave, the door once again opened and Sherlock Holmes himself stuck his head through the crack.

"Haven't you an iron to attend to?"

And with that, he was gone.

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><p><em>Please review! <em>

_-Laura _


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi Don't fret, Sherlock will be in this considerably more in later chapters! I'm just kind of setting the scene for the majority of the story at the moment :3_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Two:**

"**Tick Tock"**

I can't exactly pinpoint the exact date when the events started to begin – but I do remember, this particular day- was a Wednesday.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

"That's right, says here he's the world's only consulting detective, whatever that is." I pointed to the screen in which his preposterous website "The Science of Deduction." was open.

I had worked with Molly at St Bartholomew's hospital for just under two years, but we had shared a flat on the top floor for one year. In university she had studied to become a pathologist. I however had not attended university. She had now achieved her goal, and I had managed to learn how to serve dodgy canteen food… But I could never bring myself to resent her; she was my closest if only friend.

"I know him." Molly looked flushed. "He asked you to move in with him?" She turned to me in disbelief.

I snorted. "He barely registered I was there. Wait- what do you mean you know him?"

"He comes into Bart's every noun again and asks for… favours."

Favours?

"… favours?" I asked warily.

Molly blushed a brighter shade of pink. "No! no- I mean, he's not – he doesn't," she stopped and took a death breath. "He says it's not really his area."

"What, sex?" I was planning on moving in with an asexual – hmm, at least I could walk around in my underwear freely.

"Girlfriends." She corrected.

Oh. _Oh._

"So him and John are..?"

"No!" she replied a little too quickly. "I don't think he likes anyone. Like _that._"

"I see."

It made sense. He seemed much too interested in murders to care about much else. Maybe he was a sadist… oh –god, I'm moving in next door to a sadist.

"…Ange?" I looked up to see Molly had been speaking whilst I had been fearing for my safety.

"Uh, yes – sorry. What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything, you just looked spaced out."

"Oh no, I just don't understand. I've worked at Bart's for two years now – why have I never seen him before?"

Molly looked slightly amused.

"Oh, he never eats while on a case, which is the only time he ever comes into Bart's, so its not surprising you never seen him milling about."

She seemed to know an awful lot about Sherlock Holmes.

"Why haven't you mentioned him before Moll?"

"Urm," she mumbled, contemplating her feet.

And then suddenly, it dawned on me. I may not be as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that Molly had a sizeably large crush on this man. I could see where she was coming from – he was after all, strikingly good looking, but his personality would be enough to irritate me indefinitely. If only he were more like John. In any case, It's probably best to leave _that_ alone.

"Oh, hey – have we got any cardboard boxes left?" I said quickly, changing the subject. I had hauled the majority of my possessions to 221C already, but still had a few items left.

"Do you have to leave?"

Not this again. I'd already explained this three times.

"You know I do – we can't flat share for the rest of our lives Mol. Actually – it's more like fate. If that man I served in the canteen the other night hadn't suggested 221C, I would have never have dreamt of leaving! Mrs Hudson charges an absolute pittance compared to what we pay now!"

It'd probably be because of the rats.

"I suppose so but-"

"Come on; let's go through the list of potentials again. We can't have your new flatmate having any annoying habits!"

"I-"Molly finally gave up. "…OK."

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><p>Tonight was my last night sleeping in this flat, Molly was called in at ten to assess a new body recently brought in, and I was lying wide awake in bed- unable to sleep because of the incessant ticking of the clock.<p>

Did I really want to move? Of course, my financial status demanded it- but I wasn't sure change was the right thing. I was sure Sherlock Holmes was the right thing- from what Molly had told me about the man, well; let's just say he'd never be boring. I don't know what I'm fretting over, it's not like I'm actually going to be living with-

It was then that a revelation graced on me.

I didn't have a clock in my room. Even if I had- it would have been packed away.

The living room clock was broken. So what was making that noise?

I leaped out of bed and followed the sound – it was coming from my wardrobe.

I took a breath and pointedly pulled open the door.

There sitting quite smugly at the bottom of my wardrobe, was Semtex and a timer reading – 01:00.

I knew we shouldn't have chosen the top floor.

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><p><em>I'm really sorry Sherlock was only mentioned in this one! I PROMISE he'll be in the next <em>

_-Laura_


	3. Chapter 3

_I know you guys probably can't see how this is going to be a romance: But I plan for this to be a VERY long story – and I really want to stay true to Sherlock, I doubt he'd fall in love in a matter of days -if he'd fall in love at all._

_:L –SIGH a girl can dream can't she? _

_Terribly sorry for any mistakes!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Three:**

"**Only An Idiot"**

Panic struck me.

"MOLLY!" I screamed as I ran to her bedroom – but she wasn't there.

She wasn't anywhere in the flat- at least I didn't have to worry about her. Right now I had bigger fish to fry.

I had precisely forty seconds to evacuate the entire building.

Running into the hall I screamed and banged frantically on doors. "BOMB! EVERYONE GET OUT!"

Pretty soon people were coming out of their flats- thickened with sleep. It wasn't working fully, I had no time to go to the other five floors and do the same– probably ten seconds had past, and my brain finally went into overdrive.

Heading straight for the fire alarm, I smashed the glass and pushed the button. A screeching alarm rang out through the halls which caused a commotion.

At last, I could start fleeing down the stairs amongst the other rush of people, desperate to save their own lives. I could hear the explosion from the second floor. People started to push others down the stairs to get out faster, screaming and crying was echoing from every corner.

I really didn't think I was going to make it outside, but finally I did, and ran with all my might as far away from the block of flats as possible, shards of glass were shooting in every direction and I didn't want to become part of the rubble. Luckily someone had already called the police.

I glanced around desperately, trying to spot Molly- but to no avail.

When I got far enough away, I placed my hand of my knees and gasped for air.

After a moment or two, I composed myself. "Who'd want to kill me?" I asked to no one.

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><p>After returning to the scene, I sat in the back of an ambulance and was given an orange blanket. 'For the shock' they said.<p>

An attractive man in his early forties – despite the grey hair, approached me.

"Miss Porter?" he asked.

"Yes- that's me."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm investigating your case. The report here says that the bomb was found in your flat."

"Mine and my friend, Molly Hooper's flat."

"Molly?" he said, shocked.

"You know her?"

"She's our go to pathologist. Where is she?"

I exhaled. "I wish I knew. I think she's probably at the lab."

"Alright then, well I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you down for questioning-"

"Freak's here." A black woman with curly hair – probably in her early thirties, stood armed crossed and looked disapprovingly at Lestrade.

Lestrade sighed. "Where is he?"

She gestured her head and I almost laughed out loud.

Sherlock Holmes exited the cab, John following close behind, and stepped straight under the caution tape.

"So this is what the great detective does." I muttered.

"Show me the flat." He stated simply.

The frizzy haired woman rolled her eyes.

"Oh, hello to you too." Lestrade commented, but led the way nevertheless.

"Angela?" John said, finally realising me. "What are you-?"

"I live here. Well, used to."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and spun round impatiently. "Are you coming John?"

"Err, Yeah I'm just-"

"-I'll come too." I cut in.

John gave me the 'you sure?' look, and I nodded. Sherlock, on the other hand rounded the corner without a seconds glance.

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><p>When we entered the flat –or what was left of it, and overwhelming urge to cry took me. Despite not losing everything I own, I felt awful for Molly. She had no idea.<p>

As Sherlock pulled out his small magnifying glass, he head straight for my old bedroom –needless to say I was glad that any unspeakables I had had were safely tucked away in 221C.

There must be something out of the ordinary, no one plants a bomb in a person's house for no reason at all. The police hadn't found anything, but asking a consulting detective to solve their crimes I didn't really give me the best confidence in them.

Everything was broken, I bent down to pick up a shard of vase – Molly was given it about four months ago. Just as I was about to stand up, I noticed something glinting on the charred floor.

A camera.

I picked it up and examined it. The screen was cracked but you could still tell it had been expensive. And then, as if from nowhere – Sherlock Holmes appeared behind me.

"Ah, HD spy camera – whoevers been watching you has expensive taste, hence why the explosion didn't completely obliterate it. This particular model looks to be between three hundred to five hundred pounds." He swiftly took the camera from me and walked briskly around the room turning it over in his large hands. "Brand new – only ever handled when taken from the boxing and planted in a vase–"

"That vase?" Lestrade piped in, pointing to Molly's now cracked mess.

"The very same. Slightly difficult to determine the precise time as the accumulation of dust would have been destroyed in the explosion."

"Wait, are you saying you don't know?" Lestrade looked baffled, and slightly –smug.

Sherlock stopped and gave Lestrade a look and continued talking.

"Judging by the state of this vase, porcelain, handcrafted - this was given to you –"

Before I had opened my mouth he said, "No offence, but obviously you don't have sufficient funds to splash out on a two hundred pound vase - why else would you move to 221C Baker Street, where Mrs Hudson is charging significantly less than here?"

For god sake. Was there anything that man didn't notice?

"Probably the rats." I heard John mutter under his breath.

This didn't hinder Sherlock from continuing. "No- this was a gift, from a lover? No, flowers and chocolates, _that's _what you give a lover – but a vase? And let's not forget the fact that whoever gave this to you is using it as a means of surveillance. But the question is who would want to-"

Ordinarily, I'd be impressed, but his voice was now more like a drone- I was so tired, I really just wanted to sleep.

"Four months ago." I cut in. "_Molly_, was given that vase four months ago by a florist called Mr Lenin. I would take you there but it only opens at seven – its four in the morning and I'm bloody tired, no ones been hurt, so I'd appreciate it if you'd save your incessant rambling until the morning."

He halted abruptly, and gazed at me almost in astonishment, his ice blue eyes dissecting me. I could hear John and Lestrade chuckling away under their breaths.

Sherlock pointedly turned to them in annoyance and they almost instantly disguised their laughs as coughs.

I sighed and headed out the door, ready to get home, get to sleep, and pretend this night had never happened. – I heard vaguely their conversation on the way out.

"And there was me thinking I was here to solve crimes, not be insulted." Sherlock said numbly.

"I've got to give it to her," Lestrade said in between chortles "She is a feisty one."

"You've got that right." John agreed.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and striding out the door –presumably to hail a taxi.

"And so the fun begins." John declared.

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><p><em>Hope you guys liked it! Sorry about the wait! Please PLEASE review!<em>

_-Laura_


	4. Chapter 4

_OH MY GOSH, I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG! I've had exams and I had a fever that lasted a week, so I've been very busy! Thank you for all your kinds and helpful reviews! They really make me want to continue! Please keep reviewing!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Four:**

"**Persistence Is Bliss"**

The taxi ride home was awkward to say the least.

Sherlock had passed me on the stairs without a fleeting word, and got a cab alone – which left me and John to share one.

"Don't mind him," John said kindly as we ducked into the cab, "He's just sulking."

"Do that a lot does he?" I asked.

"Oh, only all the time." John laughed.

"Sounds like a bit of a child to me." I turned to lean my head against the window, my eyes gradually closing.

I regret to say that I didn't even hear John's reply – I was drifting in and out of sleep in the pale light of London.

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><p>I awoke to the sound of a violent screeching noise coming from upstairs. As I rubbed my eyes, I realised I was in the bedroom of 221C Baker Street, aka my new flat. I silently thanked John.<p>

I searched for my phone and found that the time was 06.59- why on earth would someone be playing the violin a minute before seven? As I recalled the events from last night – I remembered saying that the florist Mr Lenin, opened his shop at seven. And I had promised to take them there.

Oh, I get it now. This was Sherlock's form of an alarm.

_Bastard._

It took me about half an hour to get washed and search my various boxes for decent clothes. I didn't rush though- he may be usually accustomed to getting his own way very quickly, but unfortunately for him, that wouldn't wash with me.

Still, Sherlock continued to screech away, the sound echoing through the fireplace. I could tell it was him, because let's face it – John doesn't look like the musical type.

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><p>Finally, after Sherlock's performance had ceased, I trudged up the stairs to 221B and found John in the kitchen making tea – obviously woken by Sherlock's insufferable playing.<p>

"Good Morning." He uttered, groggily.

"Is it?" I replied, throwing an irritated glare Sherlock's way.

He didn't so much as glance up from his paper.

"Tea?" John asked.

"Please. Look, sorry, about last night- I always get bad tempered when I'm tired."

"Evidently." Sherlock stated from the other side of the room.

God, he can't _still_ be sulking? Can he?

John passed me my tea and I leaned in a lowered my voice. "He doesn't like me very much, does he?"

"Sherlock," John snorted into his tea, "Doesn't like anyone."

"He likes you."

"Don't be fooled." John said, still chuckling, "I'm just his replacement skull."

"I'll pretend to know what that means." I said warily.

"Are you two planning on whispering all day, or are _you_," Sherlock finally regarded me, "going to follow through on your promise to take us to the florist?" he said dully.

"Why, exactly, can't you navigate yourself there? What with you being 'The great consulting detective' and everything."

He observed me from the corner of his eye before saying, "And why would I bother to do that, when I've got a person who knows the exact directions, sitting right in front of me."

"Oh, get stuffed." I mumbled.

"Classy."

I could hear John pointlessly trying to disguise his sniggering as coughs, so I turned and scowled. He stopped.

"You're an insufferable human being; I don't know how John puts up with you."

Sherlock placed the paper on his lap and closed his eyes. His hands rested against his nose- he looked like he was praying. Funnily enough, Sherlock Holmes doesn't seem the 'religious' type.

"Bored now. Your inane chatter's getting repetitive. Are we going?"

I was beginning to get angry. "So soon? I was just about to poison your tea."

"I'd sooner drink it than continue this conversation." He stayed, unmoving from his praying position.

I sighed and put down my tea. "I'll just get changed then shall I?" I sneered.

"That would benefit you greatly due to the fact that it's raining outside."

Sherlock then got up, leaving the newspaper on the chair and stood, hands behind back silhouetted in the dull morning light.

I turned to John, and he gave me an apologetic look.

I swear, I've never sighed so much in my life.

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><p><em>Sorry it's not that long! Please Review!<em>

-_Laura_


	5. Chapter 5

_Long one today guys! Sorry I've been away! Kind of lost momentum for a moment there! Thank you for all your reviews! Hope you enjoy this sizeably large chapter! Review Please!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Five:**

**"Getting Nowhere"**

"Can I help you?"

A man, probably in his early fifties stared inquisitively at the three of us from behind the counter, his strong German accent accenting the question.

I instinctively turned to Sherlock, but he had already started sifting through the shop, paying myself and John no mind.

_As usual._

I stepped forward, "Yes, I was wondering whether you could help us." Mr Lenin suddenly started to fidget.

"Urm, well, that depends on what you would like me to help you with,"

John piped up, "About four months ago, a woman named Molly Hooper came here. You gave her this," He held up a fragment of the broken vase, "free of charge. Why would you do that?"

Mr Lenin looked to John's hand, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, I think you do." John lowered his voice, something I had yet to come across. "My friend could have died last night, and this-" This time he threw the fragment on the counter, "-this is the key to knowing why." John's eyes were now so fixated on the Mr Lenin, I thought he may clock him one.

I wasn't sure I liked angry John.

"I do not want any trouble, I think you must go now," He inclined to the door, by which time; Sherlock had already slid past the florist into the back room, only to return moments later.

John sighed. "It's no use Sherlock. The man's clearly clueless."

"Oh, I highly doubt that."

"What are you on about?" I questioned,

Sherlock raised one eyebrow and inhaled deeply, obviously readying himself to show off.

_Smug bastard._

"Flowers." He said stalely.

"…Flowers?" John replied, his forehead creasing.

"Yes, flowers," He pointed to a large pot of odd looking flowers with yellow buds. "Precisely, those."

John paused for a moment, I didn't know where Sherlock was going with this either.

"Flowers- he's a florist, Sherlock! If he didn't have bloody flowers, he wouldn't be a very good one."

I nodded, "What exactly will a pot of yellow flowers tell us?"

"Oh, flowers can tell you everything Miss Porter. Like perhaps how Mr Lenin's daughter is ill, or what one could class as ill."

We all suddenly gazed back to the florist, who looked awfully flustered by our exchange.

"I do not know what you are talking about." His voice shook.

Sherlock displayed a ghost of a smile.

"Everything in this shop has a price on it. That vase doesn't, which suggests some sort of personal attachment, a present in fact. Now, who would you give flowers to?"

Despite knowing Sherlock for all of two weeks, I had become accustomed to his rude albeit brilliant deductions.

"Wife? No ring, no sign of an indent on your ring finger either, you were never married; Girlfriend then? Unlikely, your flat's made for one. So, daughter then. It could be a cousin or a niece, but daughters more likely, it's evident by the picture you keep behind the counter of you and said daughter," He stood firmly, glowering down at Mr Lenin. "Any idiot can see the similarities in facial appearance, blue eyes, brown hair, etc…"

Mr Lenin looked as if he were about crumble into a million pieces; but somehow, this spurred the detective on.

"So, why would you be giving her flowers? If it was a wedding, or an engagement, the card would not read 'Something to brighten you day', she could simply upset, but the report from your flat says you buy these flowers on a regular basis, ills much more probable,"

Sherlock waltzed around the shop, his folded neatly behind his back,

"Then there's the worry lines. You've got an abundance of them, the worry lines of a father who spends his nights desperately searching for a way to pay his child's surgery."

I could see the tears welling up in the older man's eyes. Luckily John cut in.

"Sherlock…" He gave him a look that I can only presume meant, 'He's going to cry, have a bit of heart."

Sherlock responding by huffing slightly, and continuing on.

"_Hypericum perforatum_, otherwise known as Saint John's wort."

Confusion bounced between me and John, I bet Sherlock revelled in it.

"Still not following," I piped up,

"Of course you aren't." Sherlock muttered. "Saint John's wort is major anti depressant. Your daughter has been depressed for quite some time now hasn't she?"

"Ever since the mother died." He uttered.

"Yes, and I suspect she couldn't take it anymore and tried to end it all."

"She punctured a lung, and now she's on the waiting list for a lung transplant. I do not have the money to speed up the process, any longer and she will die- she cannot die," He finally cracked and broke down crying.

John cautiously put his hand on the man's shoulder, and said sympathetically "I'm sorry, I really am, but we need to know how you came by this vase."

Mr Lenin stared at us all then, wondering whether to reveal the truth. After a long moment, he sniffed and whispered, "He sent me an email, told me a time and a name. Molly Hooper, six pm."

"That's usually when she gets back from the morgue."

Mr Lenin nodded, "I asked him why I should help him." He stared at the ground, "He replied by sending me a picture of my Moira, asleep in hospital. I did not argue."

"Who?" Sherlock suddenly said,

"Who what?"

"Who sent you this email, what was his name?"

"I cannot say. He said Moira would be dancing with the black poppies."

Sherlock lifted his head knowingly. "The language of flowers. Black poppies meaning death."

"Yes."

John inhaled, "We still need a name."

I looked towards him, "His daughter's in danger if he tells us."

"_You're in danger if he doesn't!"_

I was shocked by John's outburst, his normally sincere and kind eyes burned with rage. Even Sherlock looked as if he was taken aback.

John looked back to the florist, "Please." He turned to Sherlock, "Text Lestrade, tell him to get down to the hospital,"

For once, Sherlock did as he was told. A few minutes later, a text arrived saying that Lestrade was on his way.

"See? The police are with her, no one can hurt her now. A name Lenin." John pleaded; it was actually quite unnerving seeing him in this state.

Once again he stared at the three of us. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "His name was Mori-"

_Bang. Bang._

And just like that, he was dead.

We had collapsed to the floor, glass flying in every direction.

One bullet had shattered the glass from the shop window, and the second had gone right through the florist's skull.

I felt sick.

* * *

><p>It was about midday and the police and an ambulance had arrived, Molly scurried out of the van and hugged me tightly.<p>

"Thank god." I breathed.

"I'm so sorry Ange; I'll explain everything later, but I've got to go look at the body."

"Okay." I exhaled. The orange blankets had made a comeback. Sherlock looked the most ridiculous. I walked towards him, to find him speaking with John.

"Moriarty." Sherlock stated to no one in particular.

"What's a Moriarty?" I asked.

"Not what, who."

"He's the one who was terrorizing Mr Lenin?"

"I believe so." He seemed dazed, as if his mind was elsewhere, which knowing him, it was.

"But why?" John spoke,

We were interrupted by Lestrade making his way over to us. He looked like death.

"It was too late. The girl. We didn't get there in time. Someone had already pulled the plug."

I closed my eyes, two deaths in one day. That's two deaths too many.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed loudly.

Sherlock rested his mouth against his fist. But not in sorrow, or sadness. No, he was thinking, about this Moriarty no doubt.

I glanced at John, I could see the sadness fill his eyes, he did not know how it felt, but he had empathy. I then stared at the man next to him. Sherlock Holmes stood, stoic as ever, unaffected by the broken scene in front of him, flashing lights, sirens, dead bodies. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I wondered whether it was all an act, that inside he felt for the florist and his daughter too, that there was _something, anything, _redeemable in this man.

But as I continued to look into his ice cold eyes, I was pretty sure there was nothing.

* * *

><p><em>PLEASE REVIEW!<em>

_I really don't know whether to carry on this with story, let me know what you think.  
><em>

_Thanks :)  
><em>

_-Laura  
><em>


	6. Chapter 6

_I have to say, thank you so much for all you lovely reviews! Robin Purdy, your review almost made me cry! Thank you so much everyone!_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter, because I enjoyed writing it!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Six:**

**"As Awkward as Awkward Can Be"**

Life at 221C Baker Street was becoming comfortable.

It had been about two months, and in the first, Mrs Hudson would insist on bringing me various assortments of cakes, and a large quantity of teabags. I didn't really drink tea, but she looked so pleased I could hardly turn her away.

Oh lord, and don't even get me started on Molly. Any excuse she could think of to come round- hoping to bump into the Sherly.

There had been something playing on my mind though.

John.

He'd been acting awfully odd towards me, well, since the tragic death of Mr Lenin. Things like, bringing me presents, like Mrs Hudson, but on a grander scale.

Jesus, the only person who hadn't bothered me at all was the great detective himself, and that wasn't counting the night long violin solo.

The fact of the matter was, John appeared to be displaying some form of… admiration, towards me, and I really didn't know what to do with it.

I recalled the conversation that had taken place earlier that day.

* * *

><p>"Oh, John! Hello." I scoped the area cumbersomely.<p>

"Hello Ange, I've come to taste your delights." He winked.

My eyes widened. Soon, he followed suit.

"Oh, god- no, I didn't mean- no, _no_, I just meant-" He inhaled deeply as his head sunk, "I'll have the pasta."

I laughed nervously and dished up his pasta. "You never eat in here."

"Yeah, well, there's a first time for everything." He smiled.

"There is. It's actually a bloody nice change; usually it's that tosser Anderson and his frizzy haired sheepdog."

John chuckled, "Sherlock would be proud. He doesn't like them."

"I thought he didn't like anyone?"

"That's true."

I smiled, waiting for him to turn and find a table to eat at. But he stood there- as if he was waiting for something.

"Is there… something else?" I asked warily.

"No! I mean, no. Well yes, there is, err, just this one thing; listen would you like to-"

"ANGELA! Get 'ere girl. Someone needs to clean this blender, and I've just had my cyst drained."

Meg, the head canteen attendant, was well into her sixties, but unlike Mrs Hudson, lacked finesse or personal hygiene.

I huffed. "Alright, keep ya wig on." I turned back to John and grinned, "I'll see you _very_ soon."

His eyes gleamed.

* * *

><p>It was that gleam in his eye that had led me up the stairs of 221C Baker Street. I needed to speak with him. Oh god, this was going to be awkward.<p>

As I rounded the corner into the living room, I found no one.

"Hello?" I peered,

"He's out."

Stumbling backwards clutching my chest, I saw Sherlock Holmes at the kitchen table staring into his microscope.

"Don't do that." I puffed.

"Don't do what? Sit at my own kitchen table in my own flat?" His eyes were still trained to the microscope.

"You of all people should know that's not what I meant."

Silence.

Oh, so he wanted to play that game.

"Whatcha doing?" I leaned over him annoyingly.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

His eyebrow raised, and for the first time since I entered to room, he regarded me.

"I'm predicting and verifying transition strengths from weakly bound molecules."

I hummed. "I see."

"Do you?" He asked stalely.

"Not a clue."

He sighed and went back to his telescope. I turned and sat in the leather chair next to the fireplace.

"Can I ask you a question Sherly? I can call you Sherly can't I?"

"No."

"Good. Why do you keep John around?"

He actually gawked over at me from where he sat.

"What?"

"I assume you're not deaf there Sherly."

He gazed at me, intrigued.

"You've made it very clear to, well, everyone that people are boring, dull,_ stupid. _I'm not saying John is any of those things, but, he is most certainly normal. What use is he to you?"

"He's my friend." Again, he stated it like it was the most obviously thing in the world.

"Since when does the great consulting detective need friends? John even said himself that's he's just a replacement skull, which I still don't have a clue about."

Instead of answering, Sherlock scanned the open book beside his microscope. "What age were you when you decided to become a _dinner lady?"_

I tightened.

Of course I hadn't told him.

"I'm not a dinner lady. I'm a _canteen attendant."_

"Oh, my mistake. What, exactly, would be the difference between a dinner lady, and a _canteen attendant?"_

I glared at him.

"You think you're so clever don't you?"

"Thinking and knowing are two completely different things Miss Porter."

"You're afraid aren't you?"

"Afraid of what?" Sherlock sighed, exasperated. His eyes were glued to me.

"Afraid of what you might do if John leaves."

Notably astonished, He continued to examine me.

"See, I'm not abnormally clever, or interesting, or even that funny. But I see things. I watch, and listen; must be rather lonely up there at the top."

Sherlock, obviously startled, stared at me confusedly, his eyes turning into slits every so often.

All of a sudden, the bell rang.

I looked back over to Sherlock who had turned back to his microscope. He stayed seated.

"Are you not gonna get that?"

"I have no desire to see Molly Hooper at this point in time."

"Wha-" I stood up and peered out of the window. Sure enough, there stood Molly.

"I'm not even gonna ask."

Seeing as it was painfully obvious Sherlock wasn't going to move from his position, I trudged down the stairs and pulled open the door.

_Bugger_.

John had just walked up the road, with bags of shopping in his hands. In my distraction with the most infuriating man in the world, I had forgotten the reason I had paid a visited to 221B.

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

"Oh- well I, just wanted to see how you are!" Liar.

Molly turned to greet John.

"Hello, John!" She exclaimed, awfully chirpier than usual.

"Hi, Molly," He turned to me and he staggered through the door, weighed down by the bags. "Hullo Ange."

"You alright?" I asked him.

"Aside from the bloody chip and pin machine being out to get me, I'm hunky dory thanks. Yourself?"

"Good enough." I thought back to that arrogant bastard upstairs. _Dinner lady, my arse._

John wobbled a bit, "Listen, these bags are killing me. Do you mind if we have a catch up later?"

"Yeah, course!"

He made his way up the stairs, as we made our way down to 221C.

I put the kettle on. Thank god for Mrs Hudson's teabags. "How's the new flatmate?"

She blushed. Actually, physically, blushed. "That's what I came to talk to you about." She smiled gleefully.

"Why, what's wrong?" I folded my arms and leant against the kitchen counter.

"Nothing, actually. I erm- I, met someone. And now, he's sort of, kind of, moved in?"

My jaw unhinged. "What?" How long have you known him?"

Molly looked at me sheepishly. "A month."

I cupped my forehead. "Jesus, Mary, Joseph."

"Oh, Ange. He's so lovely. We talk about so many things, art, literature, hell- even dead bodies. And it's perfect you see because he works at Bart's too and I really, really like him, Ange- no, more than that I think its lov-"

"Alright, alright! Good god woman, I get it." I sighed. "Well, I'm happy for you. At least you're over the turd upstairs."

She chuckled slightly.

"What's his name anyway?" I asked.

"Oh, Jim. Jim from IT."

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><p><em>Review please :) You know you wanna.<em>

_-Laura_


	7. Chapter 7

_A little scene from The Great Game, but it doesn't have the same outcome! _

_This ones fecking long because I won't be posting for a few weeks! I've got some shizz on at the moment and it's making it hard to find time to write! Please let me know what you think of this chapter though!_

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Seven:**

**"Queer as the Day is Long"**

As I exited Molly's flat, my old flat, I got the feeling that 'Jim from IT' was either mentally deficient, or obscenely gay.

My heart had chosen the latter. My brain was telling me something else entirely.

It all started on a Thursday afternoon; I was in the process of cleaning up after the lunch hour at Bart's when a bloke wearing a V neck and a dopey smile approached me.

Strangely, he looked vaguely familiar.

"You're her." He grinned.

"I'm, who?" I asked confusedly.

"The best friend Molly never stops talking about!" He suddenly pulled me into a firm embrace, startled – I dropped a plate.

"Um,-" I mumbled, trying subtly to get out of his grasp and retrieve the plate.

"Oh yes, Molly's told me all about you, I can't believe we're actually meeting at last!" He exclaimed after he had finally released me.

I chuckled awkwardly. "Why? I'm not a celebrity or anything…"

He snickered in response. "I know, I know, there's just something so strange about hearing so much about a person, and finally meeting them. Don't you think?"

Before I had time to answer, he had already begun speaking again.

"Do you watch glee? Molly and I watch it every Tuesday."

"I-"

He didn't even come up for air.

"Oh, gosh- Is it true you live with that detective, you know, the one with the funny hat- what's his name-"

"Sherlock Holmes."

He paused for a moment. All of a sudden a wide and almost frightening, grin spread across his face. "Yes. That's the one." I was pondering why his voice had changed pitch when Molly trotted over.

"Brilliant! You two have met!" She beamed.

"Yes, Jim was just telling me about your Tuesday night viewing." I laughed whilst Molly blushed.

"Now, it's nothing to be ashamed of- glee's a very entertaining show." Jim said, a little brashly if I wasn't mistaken. He squeezed Molly's shoulder and nuzzled her neck.

Feeling a little queasy, I decided to change the subject.

"What are you doing in here anyway Moll? Lunch finished about half an hour ago."

"Ah, well, I'm supposed to be getting Sherlock's coffee, but I saw you two talking and I thought I-"

"Hang on, _the _Sherlock's in?" Jim enquired.

Molly nodded before turning to me, "John, too." She winked playfully.

The face I made then probably somewhat resembled a troll. "What was that?"

"What was what?" She asked innocently.

"That! That wink! Why are you winking?"

"Oh, no reason. I heard him subtly enquiring about you to Sherlock in the lab, you know."

Jim chortled. I stared at both of them in amazement.

"He was talking to Sherlock. About me?"

"OK, well Sherlock wasn't really listening, but I think even he got the hint."

"Oh, come on Ange! Are you really telling me that you and John are just platonic?"

"Yes! That's exactly what I'm telling you!"

Uncharacteristically of Molly, she snorted.

"Molly?" Jim said kindly, "Would you mind if we- well, if we went to meet them?" He looked hopeful.

So, Sherlock had a fan.

Poor, defenceless, man.

He had obviously never met Sherlock Holmes before.

Molly looked incredibly uncertain. She was clearly thinking the same thing I was.

"Well, I suppose for a minute." She said uneasily. He smiled brightly in return. Even his eyes glistened.

_Their funeral._

"Alright, well whilst you two get on with that, I'll be getting on with this," I pointed to the stack of dirty plates in a large washing up bowl. "Have fun." I almost grinned.

"Oh, you're not coming with us?"

"Nope."

"Please, Ange."

"No."

She looked around desperately, Jim eyeing her concernedly. "I'll buy you a packet of crisps."

I paused. "Are you serious? You're bribing me? And with a packet of bloody crisps?"

"The canteen's closed! That's all they do in the vending machines!"

"Goodness, gracious me. If you're that bloody desperate." I took off the yellow rubber gloves Meg had oh-so gracefully flung at me at the beginning of my shift.

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Yes, yes. I honestly don't know why you can't just take Jim on your own."

"Because- well, because, you_ know._"

Unfortunately I did know. Lively with the Sherlock day in day out had made me somewhat immune to him, Molly on the other hand- well it was like putting a rabbit in a lion's cage. She was going to get eaten.

Metaphorically, of course…

* * *

><p>As we walked down the hall, Molly held onto a practically bouncing Jim. I, on the other hand was less than bouncy. I had just remembered the talk I had meant to have with John the other day.<p>

Molly's wink had said it all. I dread to even think what he could have possibly have been asking Sherlock.

Before I knew it, we were in the lab, and Molly had already introduced Jim to the two men. I had zoned out, standing in the corner staring at some strange coloured vials.

When I finally did look up, it was because Jim had just knocked over some books and papers next to Sherlock.

"Sorry- I'm so- oh god, sorry." He waffled.

"Don't worry Jim." Molly consoled.

"How can I make it up to you?" Jim continued, "Dinner! Yes, dinner, tomorrow night. At our flat."

"Knocking over a few stacks of paper hardly warrants a dinner invitation." Sherlock said, bemused.

"You too, Angela. If you'd like." Jim looked at me expectantly, as did Molly.

They clung to each other like they'd fall over if they didn't.

It was then that I suddenly saw John staring at me. He turned away, embarrassed. I felt slightly embarrassed myself.

"Well, I haven't got anything else on, so I suppose I could-"

"Excellent!" Jim exclaimed, "Is eight alright for you guys?"

"If you'd recall, we haven't accepted this offer of yours." Sherlock studied his microscope.

"C'mon, Sherlock. It's just dinner. Jim and Molly have been very kind to invite us- yes, we'll be there." John said kindly.

Oh, fucking fantastic. A night with my love sick best friend, her gay boyfriend, an awkward admirer, and the cleverest twat I've ever met.

I sighed. Roll on the good times.

* * *

><p>I was running late.<p>

It was just gone eight and I was rushing to find my orange scarf.

Once I had contemplated what it was doing in the bath, I jogged up the stairs into the hall of 221B.

John was standing silently, evidently waiting.

"Hey, John. Sherlock taking his time is he?"

"Erm, actually no. Sherlock's not coming."

"Why?"

"He's refusing to move- I'm waiting for you."

"Oh, that's nice of you." I turned to look at the door. John spoke then, "Don't worry, I've already called a cab."

"Oh, it's not that. It's just- well I think Jim was expecting Sherlock to come. And he means a lot to Molly; shouldn't we try and get him to come?"

He gestured to the door of the living room. "Be my guest." He smirked.

I sighed, braced myself and went in.

A screeching noise assaulted my ears. "No."

I puffed. "Think of all the things Molly's done for you."

"She brings me coffee, yes. She assists me, sometimes, on cases, yes. She demands my presence at her flat for… dinner, no."

"She did not demand it. It wasn't even her idea!"

"I have no interest in interacting with Molly's homosexual boyfriend either."

"Ugh, I knew I wasn't imagining it!"

He stared, amazed that I had somehow followed his train of thought.

His violin, however, continued to drown out any train of thought_ I'd _had.

"Alright, do it for John then."

"John, why would John care whether I come or not?"

I struggled to find words. "Oh, because he does!"

Apparently my answer wasn't good enough because he turned his back to me, and facing the window, he continued to screech a rather annoying sound.

That was it. I was going to have to use force.

I scanned the room, and finally, I eyed it. A prized possession of his.

"Don't even think about it."

_Oh balls._

"Do what?" I said lightly.

"You're failed attempt at persuasion has now led you to rethink your course of action. And I'm telling you now. Don't think about it."

"Too late."

In a flash, I had lunged for the skull that sad proudly on his mantelpiece and held it over the fire defiantly.

"Come with us, or the skull gets it."

"You wouldn't dare." Sherlock stood, clasping his violin and his bow in each hand.

"Wouldn't I?" I challenged.

"Alright then, go ahead." He once again turned to face the window; but this time instead of playing some unbearable screech, he played the funeral march.

I looked down at the fire, and suddenly got an idea.

"You know, perhaps I wouldn't dare. No, perhaps I'll just take him home instead." Sherlock stopped playing.

I clasped the skull to me.

"Yes, and maybe I'll give it a little makeover too, some lipstick here, some permanent marker pen there," I tried not to smile.

He did it so quickly I didn't have time to register it. He put down the bow and violin, grabbed his coat and scarf, took the skull from my hands and placed it back on the mantelpiece, and hurried out the door.

"Well, come on then," He called, "We've no time to waste."

I didn't even question how easy it was to manipulate Sherlock. Instead, I gave up and grinned.

* * *

><p>When we finally arrived at Molly's, I was surprised to see she had made an effort.<p>

Her flat was small, but yet the sofa had been pushed out of the way to make space for the dining table.

Jim greeted Sherlock eagerly, to which Sherlock tolerated.

Before I knew it, I was on the wine.

Seven glasses later, and Jim was rambling on about something to do with hard drives.

I couldn't believe that Sherlock actually sat still through the entire dinner, spending most of it in his praying position; I couldn't even remember eating the steak I had apparently had.

"-this is not a standard scenario for disk replacement - infrequently will the same disk model be used given changes in cost and technological improvements." Jim said. I was beginning to see double.

Then I did something so mortifying, I've blocked it out of my memory.

"-you're a boring fucker aren't you?" I slurred.

The table went quiet, and they all turned in astonishment to me.

"I'm-I'm sorry?"

"You heard, and what's the deal with the V necks? I saw you checking out," I hiccupped, "Sherlock 'ere earlier." I slouched towards Molly and whispered theatrically, "Eyyy, ey, Moll, you better watch this one- he's not playing for us, if ya know what I mean-"

"OK! And that's enough for one night, Jim, Molly, thank you for having us over- but I think someone needs to go to bed!" John said, trying to relieve the tension.

Molly looked as if she were about to cry, of course I didn't register it at the time.

"Oh, good." Sherlock swiped his coat, and stood by the door without so much as a thank you.

I went to stand but almost took the table cloth and everything on the table cloth with me.

"Jesus, let me help." Jim came over and slung his arm around me whilst John grabbed the other side.

"Byeeee Molly." I wailed.

I didn't hear her response.

"Oh god- Jim, can you hold her whilst I ring a cab?"

"Of course."

John walked a little ahead to use phone the cab, whilst Sherlock stood bone idly, furiously typing on his phone.

My knees gave way.

"Whoaaaa, there precious. Wouldn't want you dying on me." Jim mocked.

Where did that voice come from? It wasn't dopey or high pitched, in fact it was very low, and an Irish accent appeared out of nowhere.

"Wh-what, why are you-"

"Shh, don't talk. I'll see you very soon, An-ge-la." He elongated my name, "You're cleverer than I thought you were."

Everything was blurry, and I didn't even know if this was really happening.

"The cabs here." I heard John say.

He took me away from Jim and sat me next to the window. I gazed out of it dizzily, Jim stood there. Smiling.

The cab took off, but had to stop quickly when I need to vomit on the side of the road. John rubbed my back affectionately.

I peered back at the cab, and the driver looked bored, whilst Sherlock watched me through the window. For a moment I thought he would get out- but I realise now it was probably in my head.

I didn't know what had occurred tonight with Jim from IT, I could have just imagined it in my drunken state. And yet, as I got back into the cab and John paid the driver extra for waiting, I couldn't help but think one single thought. Over and over again.

_Something ain't right with Jim from IT._

Oh, how right I was.

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><p><em>Did it suck? Did it not suck? PLEASE REVIEW, and let me know, <em>

_-Laura _

_P.S I really like writing drunk people. :3_


	8. Chapter 8

_Oh god, hang, draw and quarter me! I know it's been AGES! I apologise profusely! _

_You may be a bit surprised in this one- but don't worry- it all comes back full circle _

_Long awaited, but here it is!_

* * *

><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Eight:**

**"Avoidance is the Best Punishment"**

It had been a little over two weeks since I had spoken to Molly.

I'll level with you.

I felt awful.

The last thing I remember is being tucked up into bed by John, and querying Sherlock as to why he was such a ginormous cock. I think I must have passed out during his response.

But none of that even mattered. No, the main thing that mattered is that I had hurt my best friends feeling's in the midst of my drunken stupor.

I recalled a conversation; well I say conversation- that I had with Molly on Monday morning.

"Molly."

No answer.

"Molly, I know you can hear me- I can see the top of your head moving behind the table top."

I had gone to the lab, and was trying to apologize for my behaviour. Luckily, I had come prepared with Meg's chocolate chip muffins- Molly's favourite. Some may call it bribery. I call it… compensation.

"OK. I understand- you don't want to talk to me right now. I just want you to know that I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt your feelings- or… Jim's." I cringed after I had said his name. I remembered a certain dream I had had two nights ago- shortly after the 'Dinner party disaster of '012' as I now like to refer to it.

There was still no response from Molly. I sighed quietly.

"I'll just leave these here then Moll. I know their your favourite." And with that, I left the box on floor outside the lab, and exited through the double doors.

Shortly after, I heard a scurrying to the door, and the box being picked up.

I grinned.

But that was a week ago, and I was starting to get worried about Molly. She's never not spoken to me for this long. Not even when I accidentally on purpose set fire to one of her sentimental romance novels (The guy's face on the front cover made me want to pummel things) Not even then did she ignore me for two weeks solid.

I had to say, I was getting rather lonely without the comfort of her conversation.

Embarrassingly enough, I've even started to talk to Sherlock more to avoid the solitude. Well, I talk- he pretends not to hear me.

"Are you still rambling?" He asked, clearly aggravated one day.

I paused, unaware that I had been. "Apparently so."

"Well, stop- I've got better things to do than to sit here listening to your inane chatter about Molly Hooper."

I turned towards him. He looked reminiscent of a moody teenager- the way he was lying gloomily across the sofa in his blue silk dressing gown.

"Oh yes? Like what?" I asked.

"I'm working on a case. And no you can't help." He sighed.

"I wasn't even going to- what case?"

"It hasn't been reported yet. But it's coming- I can feel it." He uttered, eyes fixed upon the ceiling.

I glanced around suspiciously, it finally dawning on me that I needed to get out of the house. Soon. Unfortunately, so did Sherlock.

"Do you want to go out?" I asked.

Sherlock's head shot towards me in surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. So do you?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean."

"Yes, and so do you. We've been sitting in here for three days straight."

"Can't. Busy."

I heaved a sigh of anguish. "Alright, well I hope you have fun doing- whatever it is you're doing." I stood up from John's chair.

Thinking about it- I had hardly seen John these past three days. Was _everyone _avoiding me?

"Where's John, by the way?" I asked.

"Well, if he's not _in_ then he must be _out_, mustn't he?" he said wryly.

"Thank you, Sherlock Holmes for that critical analysis- but I was thinking in more specific terms."

He yawned audibly.

"Oh, you make my blood boil- do you know that?" I could feel the fist's at my side getting tighter, and tighter.

"Physically, impossible." And with that, he closed his eyes peacefully and entered his familiar 'praying' position.

I wanted to punch him. I really did- just quickly, right between the eyes. But he was lying down, and punching him would entail climbing on top of him to do so. Instead, I sauntered over to him.

"Cup of tea, Sherly?" I questioned.

He opened his eyes, but it was too late for I had already dumped the glass of cold tea on his face.

He spluttered angrily as I strolled out of the room. It would do.

For now.

* * *

><p>I traipsed down the stairs and decided that before I was to venture out into the big bad world again- I'd ask Mrs Hudson were John was.<p>

I knocked on the rough wood, and waited to see the old woman's kindly face.

The door swung open. There stood Mrs Hudson in her fluffy pink dressing gown.

"Oh, hello there Angela!" She looked unusually flustered.

"Er, hi Mrs Hudson- I was just wondering if you possibly knew where John was?"

"Oh no, dear- I haven't the foggiest idea where he is- oh no, I saw him leaving the house with this pretty young thing, well- it must have been yesterday afternoon." She glanced behind the door warily.

"Who was she?"

"Oh, your guess is as good as mine dear. Probably his latest 'squeeze'" She breathed, tightening her dressing gown.

"Have I… come at a bad time?" I asked cautiously.

"Oh, no! No." Her attention turned to something behind me. "Speak of the devil! Sorry dear, I better go." She said hurriedly and closed her door.

I turned, aghast, to see John, hair ruffled- standing in the doorway. But he was not alone. Standing next to him, clasping his hand was a woman in her early thirties with light brown hair- and a patronising smile.

Maybe my isolation had made me incoherent, but I just stood there like some village idiot.

"Hey, Ange. This is Sarah. My girlfriend."

"Nice to meet you." She stuck out her hand for me to shake. But I just stood there, dumbstruck.

John had a girlfriend?

John had a girlfriend.

To my surprise, I didn't know how I felt about that.

* * *

><p><em>Please review if you can! SORRY AGAIN! <em>

_-Laura :)  
><em>


	9. Chapter 9

_Well, well well, long time no see :L_

_So, I've spent all day writing this- I think you bloody deserve it, and well I hope it's worth reading still! I've read some lovely reviews saying that I needed to carry on, and I was about to give up- but I thought, I might as well give it a chance! So please, god- forgive me, and chuck me a review if you can to let me know whether it's worth continuing. I'm so sorry again. Okay- lameness, done. Here's the good stuff!_

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>221C Baker Street<strong>

**Chapter Nine:**

**"Lost the Plot"**

"I'm Angela." I blinked.

"Yes, John's informed me already." She smirked.

John started up the stairs, "Ange, we were just about to have some tea- care to join us?"

"Uh, Okay?" I followed suit and continued behind Sarah- her heels clanking obnoxiously against the wooden steps.

All of us grew to a halt when I heard a loud burst of laughter from John.

I was in such a state of shock that I had completely forgotten about Sherlock.

"What- on – earth – happened- to- you?" He heaved between laughs.

He looked pointedly at me, and I myself could hardly contain my own laughter.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, wringing out his dressing gown and looking much like a drowned cat. John's head followed Sherlock's line of vision.

"Oh, Ange." He said wistfully. "Let me shake you by the hand, please."

I let out a loud chuckle and grasped his waiting hand.

"You mean you did this?" A voice broke our laughter.

I turned to the source of the noise to see Sarah, arms folded- her face a scowl of disapproval.

"I did, Indeed." I replied, unashamedly.

"Well, I must say- that's hardly ladylike behaviour." She unfolded her arms and began to gaze around the flat innocently.

I stood- for not the first time today, in shock. Who the hell was this woman? Who did she think she was? Gazing at John in mild outrage- I found that he too was a little taken aback.

Before I could properly refute, I was already cut off by the other know-it-all in the rom.

"She's hardly a lady."

Ouch, apparently the drowned cat still had claws.

"That's true actually." I threw back, "You're more of a lady than I'll ever be."

"You are aware that you not only insulted me, but yourself as well?"

"I'm aware."

"Good."

"Good."

"Alright, children!" John finally called loudly. He turned to Sarah. "Look, I'm really sorry- can we take a rain check? It appears I've become babysitter for the night."

She sighed slightly, and stared me down- before putting on the fakest smile I'd ever seen and saying, "Of course, my darling. Anything for you." She kissed him full on the mouth, straightening his collar- and left with a wink.

I was going to be sick.

When I was certain I had heard the front door close, I turned to John.

"You're not serious, are you?"

John looked confused. "What?"

I paused for a moment and blinked. "Her?" I pointed out the window in the direction she was probably hailing a taxi in those prissy heels of hers.

"What about her?" His brow furrowed.

"She's- she's, well John, she's awful!" I spluttered, flailing my arms in the air.

"Wha-" He turned to Sherlock as if for assistance, but Sherlock's eyes were downcast, his long fingers moving expertly on the keys of his laptop.

When had he moved there?!

"She's not!" John defended. "She's just a little-"

"Horrendous?" I offered.

"No!" John cried, shaking his head profusely.

"For once, Porter is right, John. She's repellent." Sherlock finally piped up.

I was surprised to see that Sherlock had actually sided with _me _on this matter, but then again- even Hitler would when it came to this woman.

"You don't even know her!" John exclaimed to Sherlock.

"Thank god for that!" I replied.

"I haven't had anyone for _five months_. And the _minute _I bring-" He cut off his words, unable to speak.

It was at this point that I noticed Sherlock had actually started paying his full attention to what John was saying.

"Sherlock, I have lived with you for a long time- and I'm just beginning to realise-"

"Realise what?" Sherlock suddenly stood, eyes daggered at John, awaiting his reply.

"I expected this from you, Sherlock. But _you _Ange. _Even after I liked y-_" He cut himself off again, and stared at me. I gazed back, suddenly overridden with guilt.

"I'll be in my room." He declared, and walked out of the living room.

Feeling helpless, I went to leave as well.

"He'll get over it, once he realises that we've got his best interests at heart." Sherlock plopped back into his chair- hair still damp from the earlier tea-dumping, and returned to his usual praying position.

I chewed on my lip, unsure.

"How's the case?"

His eyes flashed open and fell upon me. "Boring." He stated, shaking his left knee distractedly.

"But you've been going on about it for three days!"

"Exactly. Three days is much too long for one to focus on one thing." He replied, and closed his eyes once more.

I gave an exasperated sigh, and threw my arms up to the heavens.

"You do that a lot."

I turned to Sherlock, startled.

"Do what?"

"The arm flailing. You should stop that."

"Well, sorry." I said sarcastically. "It's a habit of mine."

"I've noticed." He said, eyes trained back to his computer screen.

"Bet you bloody have." I muttered to myself, although I'm almost positive he heard me.

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><p>It was about six pm when I had decided enough was enough.<p>

Sherlock had been screeching on that bloody instrument pretty much since I had left 221B Baker Street earlier that same day.

So far, I had tried headphones, ear plugs, cotton balls, and shoving a pillow over my head until I started to get so sweaty I had to go to the bathroom for a shower- which by the way only echoed the sound of the violin- and nothing had worked.

Well that was it. I wasn't going to walk around with 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in my ears twenty four hours a day just so Sherlock could be a dick. Two hours was getting pretty old. I was rather impressed that I had managed to endure it for that long.

As I stomped up the stairs, holding my dressing gown tightly to me- I ran through all the disgustingly horrid things I was going to say to that man-child. I was so enthralled, in fact- that when I did finally throw open the door to the living room I very nearly collapsed over in shock.

There, in the middle of the room- quite oblivious to my existence, was Sherlock Holmes.

Dancing.

No, you didn't read it wrong. I said, _Dancing._

But he wasn't just dancing with anyone. No. He was dancing with a woman.

_A woman._

"You've got to be joking me." I muttered to myself.

"Good of you to join us, Porter." His voice broke me out of my reverie. He had ceased dancing, and was in the process of turning off the pre-recording of what I assume was him playing the violin.

"I-" I half laughed, exasperated.

"I suppose now would be the proper time for introductions, Angela Porter, this is the Woman." He gestured to the very attractive woman, who donned a red velvet tailor-made dress.

She was looking at me as if she were going to swallow me whole.

"So this is the famous Angela Porter." She grinned, her teeth sparkling. "Yes, Sherlock's told me all about you."

"Incorrect, of course- I've told you her name."

"_And _how intolerable she is, and how she never _ceases _with her arm flailing habit- oh, and let's not forget the time she got you wet." She smirked.

My eyes turned to saucers and my head shot to Sherlock, whose face looked like he had just come out of a four hour film he didn't understand.

"With tea, of course." She added nonchantly. "_Naughty girl._"

I was still in the middle of wondering whether everything that came out of her mouth was going to have a sexual undertone when Sherlock started rambling.

"As you can see, the Woman doesn't have a filter. It would be in your best interests to disregard anything she says in the nearby future."

"It's- fine." I just about managed to get out. "I just came up here to tell you to keep the bloody racket down, some people are trying to get things done you know."

"Such as?" He quipped.

"Such as- oh, piss off." I declared, when I had no retort.

"I like her, she's so feisty- makes it so much more pleasurable when I break them." The 'Woman' said.

"Is your name actually, the 'Woman'?" I asked, confused.

"It's my _stage _name- if you will." She winked at me, and then began to walk towards me, taking my hand and bringing it up to her lips. "Irene Adler."

"Err- Angela Porter." I muttered, staring down at her lips on my hand.

"We've been through this already." Sherlock deadpanned eyes narrowing at the sight.

"What say, me, you and the Virgin over here- have a little fun?" I slowly removed my hand from her grasp.

Wanting so badly to snort at her nickname for Sherlock- but was too in shock for her apparent proposal of a threesome to respond. Jesus, this 'Woman' knows how to stun.

Sherlock stood, and walked towards the kitchen, opening the breadbin. "Fun, when you're involved, isn't fun." He stated plainly.

"Oh, I'm sorry- would you rather it just be you and the beautiful Miss Porter here?" She spoke, sauntering over to sit on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "After all, the sexual tension in here is _stifling"_

I could see Sherlock's back go up, but he remained silent.

"Silence is so sexy." Irene continued, "Don't you agree Ange?"

"Stop." Sherlock verbalized.

"I think you two should have dinner." She raised her eyebrows in a way that suggested that food was not going to be involved in her type of 'dinner'.

"Okay, I'm going to go." I concluded, grabbing the door handle and backing out of the room.

Sherlock turned around in the kitchen at this.

"Don't let the Woman scare you off." He declared, holding what looked to be a rich tea finger.

"No, it's fine- I've got, things, er-" Irene was grinning at my quest for words, "other, things to be doing- now, okay, bye."

And on that awkward note, I turned.

"I'm too old for this shit." I muttered as I opened the door.

"Well, don't forget to ring me if you change your mind." She called, just as I was closing the door.

Crazy woman, I didn't even have her number.

I didn't even bother to ask why they were dancing; I made a mental note to ask later.

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><p>As I was about to approach the handle of 221C, I saw that not only was it already on hinge, but a piece of paper was lodged in between it.<p>

Making sure to hold to door, I unlodged the paper from the hole;

_Irene_

_07790916604 _

She had written in black elegant script, with a large red kiss at the bottom of the paper.

It was kind of funny; I had never had any effect on women whatsoever, let alone this kind of effect.

Brought out of my reverie I heard a small creak from downstairs.

Tempted to call the boys, I peeked through the little gap. This is was like one of those stupid horror movies where the girl goes down into the cellar despite the words 'You Will Die' are written on the cellar door.

Still, this wasn't a horror movie.

So I clasped the handle and galloped down the stairs.

I really wish I hadn't.

He stood, back to me, hands clasped behind him- and he stared up at the fireplace.

"Enjoying yourself?"

I hadn't imagined it. The Irish accent was still there.

"Jim." I stated.

He turned around slowly- manic grin on his face.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, it was down to me you're here- I just wanted to see what you've done with the place." His eyes darkened.

He must have seen the confusion on my face as he spoke,

"Oh, don't tell me you don't remember Ange."

Seemingly from nowhere he pulled what appeared to be a large cat and held it up to his face. On closer inspection I realised it was a fake beard.

And then it all clicked.

I knew he had looked strangely familiar.

It was him.

The man who came up to me in the canteen one Thursday evening and conveniently 'dropped' into the conversation that he knew a flat was going spare in a central location in London.

Upon hearing the word, 'Central' I knew I wouldn't be able to afford it.

But it was so strange, as if this man already knew what I was thinking- and told me all about Mrs Hudson's reasonable prices.

It all makes sense now. It was Jim.

He had led me to John. To… Sherlock.

But why?

"I have my orders."

"Who from?" My eyes darted across the room.

"Moriarty." His arms closed across himself.

I gasped. Visions of Mr Lenin and his daughter flooded my head.

"Who is Moriarty?" I asked, slowly.

"I am."

That was by far the vaguest answer I could have possibly received.

"Is this for TV? Is someone going to jump out with cameras any minute and declare me 'Punk'd'?"

Jim rolled his eyes and scowled, walking towards me with calm precision.

"They're not happy with you, An-ge-la."

Eurgh, the name elongation was back- and it sent shivers down my spine.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't. You're ordinary."

"Oh and what? You think you're special because you can pretend to be a gay man, whose actual a pyscho Irishman?" I crossed my arms and rolled my arms.

Somehow he managed to quickly close the gap between us and slammed me against the wall, holding my neck with his arm.

"Listen to me, Angela. It's going to start very soon."

It was then, as I was slowly losing all the air from my body that I remembered.

"Where's- Molly?" I managed to heave out, against the wall.

"She's safe." He smiled, "Safer than you, at least."

At this, he let go of me, and straightened up his suit. Then, he leaned his face in so close, I thought he was going to head-butt me. Instead, he kissed my nose. "Bye, then." He turned and slowly walked up the stairs and out of the flat.

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><p>I stood, in the middle of 221C, contemplating the last five minutes of my life, relishing breathing again.<p>

Running over to my phone, I dialled Molly's number.

Answer phone.

I tried again.

Answer phone.

I tried six times, and received nothing.

There was nothing for it.

Sprinting up the stairs, I took two at a time, I burst into 221B to find that Irene had gone, and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, praying as usual.

"Sherlock!"

"Busy."

"Sherlock!"

"No."

"But it's Molly!"

"Well, that's a definite no, then."

"Sherlock." I desperately sat in John's chair- trying to get him to look at me. "It's Jim, it's Jim from IT, he's Moriarty."

At this, his eyes flipped open and he sprang into action. "John!" He called.

I stood and followed him to the middle of the room.

Gliding over to me, he looked down- eyes way more excited than they should have been.

"Where?" He threw.

"I don't know."

"When?"

"Five minutes ago."

"Why?"

"That's your job!"

"What the hell is with all the shouting?" John stomped into the room, rubbing his eyes.

"Moriarty." Sherlock stated, and somehow that was all John needed to wake up.

Throwing John his coat, and gliding his own over his shoulders.

"You're coming." He gazed down at me.

"I am."

He turned to John to give him a look that I have yet to decipher before racing out the door and declaring, "The game is on John, the game is on."

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><p><em>SOO THERE WE ARE! WHAT DO YA RECK? <em>

_Any ideas for next chap? Let me know in a review _

_-Laura xxx_


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